


"Not I," said the Cat

by bellatemple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Kittens, Shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2507846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It blew in on a cool breeze and a flutter of dead leaves. They never stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Not I," said the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for zelda_addict and the spn_summergen challenge, for the following prompt: "Dean finds a kitten all alone outside the bunker, cold, starving, and in the rain, and decides to adopt it, even though his head might explode from allergies. Sam endures and maybe even tries to help." With great thanks to my beta, Claudia Priscus!

It blew in on a cool breeze and a flutter of dead leaves, scattering the line of salt at the motel room door. Sam didn't notice a damned thing, just kept going and let the door swing shut behind him as he went for a bucket of ice. 

They never stood a chance. 

It was the color of dirt, dark and loamy, a little bit lumpy and gray in patches. Dean first thought it was a crumpled plastic bag from the local liquor store. He had one of his own on the nightstand, though it was rather less beaten up and it definitely smelled better than the thing that rolled across the floor. He didn't think anyone would blame him for leveling his pistol at the thing, whatever it was. It scoffed at the salt line, after all, and it wasn't like he and Sam were at a loss for enemies these days. Or any days. 

And if it was just a plastic bag, well. No one was actually here to _see_ him get spooked by trash. 

It came to an abrupt halt in a way that a plastic bag blown in by what promised to be one heck of an evening thunderstorm wouldn't and sprawled out into the shape of a jagged, lopsided star. Dean eased upright on the bed, gun still raised, eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you are," he growled. "But if you think you're going to try a goddamn thing in here —" 

One of the points of the star twitched. 

"mew," said the thing. 

Dean blinked. He sniffed a few times — getting another noseful of the rich, pungent scent the thing was putting off, like sour manure — and frowned. "No," he said. "You're _not_ a cat." 

The thing sneezed. A tiny, delicate little explosion of air that nearly lifted it back up off the carpet where it sprawled. 

"No," Dean said again. "See, that'd be _my_ line. If you were a cat." 

It sneezed again and rolled over onto its back, tiny paws splayed in the air. It opened its eyes, and an extraordinarily pink tongue creeped out to lick the spot where its nose was probably hiding, under the layers of dirt and matted black fur. Dean scowled and leaned back, putting the gun down on the nightstand next to his booze. 

"That's just gross," he told it. "You smell like you've been swimming in a sewer." 

"mew," said the thing, and then it started putting out a tiny rumble, like the Impala's engine if the Impala were only six inches across, nose to tail. 

"Son of a bitch," said Dean. He cast around, then finally found one of Sam's socks — which smelled at least fractionally better than the thing on the floor did — and used it to scoop the thing up by the middle. It blinked at him and yawned, showing off an impressive row of needle sharp fangs. Then it licked its nose again. 

"Yeugh," Dean said, screwing up his nose and holding the thing at arm's length. "Look," he said. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." He eased the door open, leaning out just far enough to check for anything monster-y or demon-y — or brother-y, for that matter — and then stepped out just far enough to set the thing down on the curb at the edge of the parking lot. It patted at the ground with its paws before hopping away from his hand and pouncing on a freaking figment of its imagination. 

The sky lit up brilliant blue. Dean looked up and counted automatically, an old habit borne of long nights staying up late in motels just like this one, tracking storms and wondering if his dad had found adequate cover. The thunder rolled in before he got to three. Another gust of wind blew the tops of the trees along the edges of the parking lot nearly sideways, scattering trash and debris and flashing the pale green undersides of the leaves in the streetlights. Dean took a deep breath, catching the mineral tang of wet concrete on the breeze. 

Definitely in for a doozy. 

He glanced back down. The little black thing had skittered off, probably to find another cow patty to roll around in. Dean rolled his shoulders back, enjoying the break from the sweltering heat he'd been swimming through all day, then turned and headed back into the motel room. 

And nearly killed himself trying to dodge stepping on the tiny black thing prancing around in the remains of the salt line. 

"Son of a bitch!" 

"mew!"

*

"Ice machine's as busted as the fridge," Sam said as he came back in. "Guess we're stuck with warm beer, tonight." Dean heard him pause by the door, letting the latch click before he moved away. "What happened to the salt line?"

Dean leaned back out of the little sink alcove, where he had the little black thing tucked into a nice soapy bath. "Don't freaking ask."

"Uh, little late," said Sam. "Jesus, is that _you_ , Dean? I told you not to eat from that taco truck." 

"Ha," Dean said, turning back to where he was using Sam's toothbrush to scrub between the little black thing's ears. "I think it got stuck in a sewer drain or something." 

". . . It?" Sam asked, creeping closer. "Creeping" was definitely the word for it. He was practically sidling, hands open and ready at his sides. 

"It thinks it's a cat," Dean said. 

"mew," agreed the black thing. 

"Thinks it's a cat?" Sam repeated, finally coming up behind Dean, close enough to lean over his shoulder. "Or _is_ a cat?" 

Dean looked down at the little black thing, now revealing itself to be entirely black and entirely fuzzy, once all the dirt and dust were washed off. It had four legs, all of them attempting to thrash their way out of the soapy water even as Dean held it down with only the barest pressure on its tiny little shoulders. It had a long tail — comparatively, anyway, at least half the length of its whole body — and large, pointy ears, currently flattened back against its skull. It had seemed content enough to sit quietly once he got the washcloth over its shoulders, but now that it had a new audience, it was mewling plaintively, one tiny paw stretching out towards Sam as if pleading for mercy. 

"It can't be a cat," Dean said. "I'm not sneezing." 

"It's wet," Sam said. "Cat allergies are triggered by dander. You know, dry skin." 

Dean stared down at the thing in the sink. 

"Let me guess," said Sam. "It followed you home, and now you want to keep it." 

"Son of a bitch," said Dean. 

"mew," said the cat.

*

It was a damned scrawny thing. Dean could wrap his thumb and forefinger around its waist without really trying, even with the washcloth still wrapped around it. He scooped it up once he was reasonably sure he had all the dirt and crap washed off of it and wrapped it up in one of the hand towels. It let out that tiny Impala purr again, its eyes falling half shut, its mouth cracking just barely open. It leaned into the press of his finger as he tried to rub the fur on its cheeks dry, and the purr cranked itself right up to eleven. He cradled it carefully in both palms, still keeping the towel between himself and its actual fur, and set it down carefully on the counter.

"Stay," he said. He ignored Sam's amused snort and slowly pulled his hands away. "Stay. Staaaaaaaaay." 

The kitten reached up one paw and batted at his fingers. 

"That's not staying." 

He kept one hand in front of the kitten to discourage it from trying to make a run for it while he reached for the motel's hair dryer. The kitten popped up on its haunches and wrapped both paws around his thumb, and he barely managed to restrain himself from yanking his hand away and sending it flying across the room. 

What the hell. Didn't this thing have any survival instinct at all? 

The kitten sniffed at the tip of his thumb, licked it once with that brilliantly pink tongue, then started gnawing on it. 

"Son of a bitch!" This time Dean did pull his hand away. The kitten slid a few inches forward on the counter, but let go before it could go over the edge. Dean examined his thumb for puncture wounds. 

"mew!" said the kitten. 

"Then don't freaking bite me!" said Dean. 

Sam snorted again. Dean glanced back and saw his brother had his cellphone out. 

"Dude," Dean said, not even trying to dodge the camera lense. There wasn't enough space in the sink alcove, anyway. "Who are you even going to send that to?" 

"The internet," said Sam. 

Dean rolled his eyes and looked back at the kitten. "I'm trying to dry you off," he told it. The kitten sneezed. "Yes," said Dean. "Exactly." He picked up the hair dryer and after a few moments examining it — it wasn't like he'd ever really used one before, what with not trying to be the next face of Pantene the way Sam was — he set it to the lowest setting and aimed it at the kitten. 

It let out another indignant little "mew!" and stood up again, front paws batting at the blast of air. 

"Sorry, dude," Dean told it. "You can't kill air." 

"Believe him," Sam said. "He's tried." 

"That's my idiot brother Sam," Dean said, using a corner of the hand towel to fluff at the fur on the kitten's belly. "First rule you need to learn, other than don't bite me: never listen to Uncle Sammy." 

It started as a snicker, then grew into a great whopping belly laugh. "Dude," Sam finally managed. "Does that mean you've just declared yourself that thing's _father?_ " 

"Shut up, Sam." 

"mew," agreed the kitten.

*

"You know," Sam said, when the kitten had been dried off and he and Dean were enjoying their warm beers, the kitten bopping around entertaining itself on the floor. Rain smacked itself against the windows like someone was throwing buckets of water on the motel. "When I accidentally let a dog into our motel room, you weren't nearly this cool about it."

"When you accidentally let a dog into our motel room, she turned out to be a witch's familiar and almost got us killed. And I was _totally_ cool about it." 

Sam looked down at the kitten. Dean rolled his eyes. 

"This isn't a witch's familiar, Sam." 

"You know actually know that." 

Dean looked down at the kitten. "Hey," he said. "Sit. Stay. Turn into a hot chick on the bed." The kitten blinked at him, yawned, and started scratching behind its ear with a back paw — only to get distracted partway through and try to pounce on its own tail. Dean looked back up at Sam. 

". . . Maybe it's being really stealthy," Sam said. 

"Yeah," Dean said, totally deadpan. "It's full of _stealth._ " 

The kitten leaped after its tail in a circle several times, then staggered sideways into Sam's ankle, fell over on its back with its paws in the air, and started crying.

"Dude," Dean said. "I think it's hungry." 

Sam looked down at the kitten and shrugged. "Yeah, probably." When Dean didn't answer for a few moments, he slowly looked up. "Why are you staring at me?" 

"It's _hungry_ ," Dean said. 

"So feed it?" 

"What, beer and jerky?" Dean shook his head. "Go get some kitten food!" 

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times. "Why don't you go get it?" 

"I have to stay and make sure it doesn't get into trouble." 

"Why can't I stay here and make sure it doesn't get into trouble?!" 

"Because it likes me better than you."

"mew?" said the kitten. 

Dean made little shooing motions with his hands. 

"But —" Sam said. "It's on _my foot._ " 

The kitten flopped off Sam's foot as if on cue. It crouched down on the floor, its front paws outstretched, and wiggled its butt in the air. Then it pounced on Dean's shoelace.

Sam left. Probably glaring. Dean didn't see for sure, though, because he was too busy watching that damned little butt wiggle whenever he moved his foot.

*

"So the thing about gas station mini-marts," Sam said, once again talking before he'd even made it all the way back into the motel room. "Is that they don't carry kitten food."

"Dude," Dean hissed. "Watch the floor." The kitten had been playing with one of the dead leaves on the carpet when the door opened and had to go scurrying for cover from Sam's gigantic feet. 

Sam froze in place and looked down. "Oh god," he said. "I — I didn't —" 

"No," Dean said. He gestured with his head to the bed nearest the door. "You're good. Just close that thing before it gets out, would you? That storm's going crazy." 

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He ran the hand not full of plastic sack from the mini-mart through his wet hair. "And you just sent me out in it for _kitten food._ " 

"A mission that you failed," Dean said, refusing to be cowed. "You're a big boy, Sam, I'm sure you can manage a thunderstorm better than a twelve ounce ball of fluff." 

Sam sighed and set the sack down on the table in front of Dean. "They did have some of those mix-your-own tuna salad kits," he said, pulling one out. "Probably won't be too terrible, if we just give it the fish." 

Dean nodded, taking out another package and pulling it open. The kitten peeked its head out from under the bed as he cracked the can open, then scurried forward, mewing frantically. Dean looked down at it. 

"Dude, this thing can't be more than, what, three days old? And it already knows what a can of tuna sounds like." He looked back up at Sam. "Is that normal?" 

Sam stared at him for a moment, then sat up, his head wagging incredulously. "How the hell would I know, Dean? I have as much experience with cats as you do." 

"But you went to college," Dean tried. 

"Right. Where I majored in pre-law, with a minor in developed species memory of various food sounds." 

"That's a really specific minor." 

"Just feed your goddamn cat, Dean." 

Dean huffed, then started scooping bits of tuna into the plastic cup he'd cut in half vertically while Sam was on his food run. He leaned down next to the dancing kitten and set it carefully on the floor. The kitten scurried up to it, sniffed it — then dashed away, the food untouched. 

Dean stared. He looked at Sam. Sam's eyes went wide and he shrugged. Dean looked back at the improvised food dish on the floor. 

"Son of a bitch." 

"mew!" hissed the kitten.

*

The secret to feeding time, Dean concluded, was not to look at the kitten while it ate. Which he figured was fair enough. Sam liked to watch _him_ while he ate, usually with a mildly impressed and disgusted expression on his face, so Dean knew the feeling. The secret to what inevitably followed after feeding time was to stick the kitten in the bathroom until the smell faded a little and then hose the tub down.

The secret to bedtime was still eluding him. 

"Oh. My. God, shut the hell up!" Sam bellowed, two pillows squashed down over his head. The kitten was exploring the room and had apparently decided to announce its findings with every step. 

mew. This part's carpeted. 

mew. So's this bit. 

mew! I found a bug! 

mew. False alarm, it was lint. 

And so on. 

Sam wasn't taking it well. Honestly, neither was Dean. They'd had a long hunt before the kitten had decided to roll on into their lives, and they had a long drive back to Kansas in the morning. Dean was just trying to keep cool about it. 

Whoever was pounding on the wall above Sam's bed wasn't too keen on the whole situation, either. 

"Dean," Sam groaned. "We're going to get kicked out of the motel." 

Dean groaned back, then rolled over and fished around on the floor. Two paws worth of tiny pinpoints dug into the skin of his hand, and he scooped the kitten up, for once not bothering to worry about skin-to-fur contact. He set it down on the bed next to him and thumped it gently on the back until it lay down. "Go to sleep," he said. 

The kitten purred. Dean kept up the gentle thumpings until the purring seemed to even out, and Sam let out a little sigh of relief. He let the thumps peter out, until he was finally resting his full hand on the kitten like a blanket, and started to drift off, himself. 

"mew," said the kitten. 

"Son of a bitch," said Dean.

*

The kitten was the only one who got any sleep that night.

After the second round of pounding on the wall, Dean and Sam agreed that getting the hell out of there was the better part of valor, and they packed themselves back up, swept the leftover salt underneath the bed, and piled into the Impala. The kitten sat up on Sam's thigh in the passenger seat, craning its head as though to peer out the windshield, and held the pose until it was apparently so exhausted it just passed out sideways, tumbling down to lie on its side across Sam's legs. 

And apparently Dean was turning into a sucker, because he kind of wished they had video of that little slump and sprawl. He also kind of wished it was his lap. 

"So washing the cat makes the allergies go away," he said, talking out loud mostly to keep himself awake enough to drive. 

"Mmhm," Sam hummed. He was slouched awkwardly against the passenger side door, unable to stretch into his usual sprawl without disturbing the kitten. Dean let out a fond huff, resisting the urge to reach over and ruffle either of their heads, and turned back to the road with a smile. 

And sneezed. 

"Son of a _bitch!_ " 

The kitten shot upright on Sam's lap with a yowl.

*

"I can't believe you drove us all the way here like that."

Dean peered across the library table at Sam, through bleary, itchy, streaming eyes. "I can drive through anything," he wheezed. 

Okay, even he had to admit that came out mostly B's. 

"You sound like an asthmatic tasmanian devil." 

"The," Dean said. 

"Gesundheit," said Sam. 

" _The_ Tasmanian Devil," Dean tried. 

"There's lots of websites with tips for living with a cat when you're allergic," Sam said, and Dean silently gave himself a point for winning the Tasmanian Devil argument. Which Sam possibly didn't know they were having, because Dean's sinuses had gone into full siege mode and were dumping boiling oil on his vocal cords. Still. 

_Winner._

"First tip," Sam continued, oblivious as always, "is to keep it out of your bedroom." 

"Easy," Dean said, careful not to react as he felt the kitten's tiny claws sink into his jeans above his ankle. This is not what he'd ever have guessed being 'climbed like a tree' would be like. "This place is big enough he can have his own room." 

"He?" Sam asked. 

Dean scooped the kitten up — it'd made it all the way to Dean's hip, already, it was one hell of a climber — and deposited it on the table. He lifted the kitten's tail and pointed below its butt. 

"Balls," he said. 

Sam blinked. "We should probably have those removed." 

Dean covered the cat's ears with both hands. "Shut your filthy mouth," he wheezed. 

"It's called neutering, Dean," Sam said. "It'll make it easier for him to stay indoors all the time." 

"Why's he gotta —" Dean's question got lost in a thunderstorm of sneezing and coughing. The kitten started to cry. Sam leaned back in his seat and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 

"He needs a name, too," Sam said, when Dean had finished his allergy attack but hadn't recovered enough to finish his question. "I was thinking 'Zyrtec'." 

Dean scowled and tried to quietly hack a wad of phlegm into a tissue. 

"It's the only thing that'll get you through this," Sam said, now answering the question Dean hadn't even started asking. "And it's more manly sounding than 'Claritin' or 'Allegra'." 

"His name is Steve McQueen," Dean said. "Or maybe Robert Plant." 

"He needs a cat name," Sam said. "Not a last minute alias." 

Dean frowned. He rubbed his forehead, then winced when he realized that he could actually _feel_ the pressure shifting in his sinuses when he did that. 

"What else does that website say about allergies?" he asked. 

Sam smirked and scooped up the kitten, which had wandered onto the laptop keyboard for a nap. It purred like a finely tuned motor and curled up into Sam's armpit. 

It really liked armpits. 

"That we should buy a fancy roomba," Sam said. 

"It does not say that." 

"Well, it says a vacuum cleaner with a HEPA filter rated for allergens, but you know neither of us is going to vacuum this place on a regular basis." 

Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair, wondering if he'd ever breath without feeling like he was wearing a corset again. Not that he knew what wearing a corset felt like. 

That he'd ever admit to, anyway. 

"Okay," he said. "Roomba and Zyrtec and no bedroom time." He sneezed, a great heaving _fshCHOOMP_ that rocked him forward into the table and sent the kitten skittering up until it was perched on Sam's giant head. Dean tried to laugh, but sneezed again instead, and then choked. All he needed were a case of the hiccups for a perfect storm of "oh god, I really am going to die". 

"sonuvabitch," he gasped, when he finally managed to inhale again. 

"mew," the kitten chided. 

"Huh," said Sam. 

Dean didn't get a chance to ask what he'd figured out. He was too busy going to hide in his room.

*

The kitten _loved_ the Roomba. It tried to fight it off at first, sure, but once it pounced and realized that it could just sit on the thing and ride all the way around the library, the two were best friends.

It was adorable. Just not when you came into the room first thing in the morning and tripped over them. 

" _SONUVABITCH!_ " Dean bellowed. He could do that now. The allergy meds had kicked in, and he had his full lung capacity back. 

"MEW!" said the kitten. Dean looked up at it from where he was sprawled on the floor. 

". . . Huh," he said.

*

"We should really take it to a shelter, you know," Sam said, while he helped Dean tape up his strained ankle. "Let it get adopted. It's a kitten, it'll get snapped right up."

"It's a _black_ kitten, Sam." Dean folded his arms over his chest and scowled. "You and I have both seen what happens to them. Halloween's not that far off. It'll get snapped up by a witchy wannabe and sacrificed to the Lord of the Underworld." 

"I didn't know Crowley was trading in ritual animal sacrifice these days." 

"So we'd have a dead cat _and_ a disgusted Crowley. Awesome." 

"We could give it to Cas," Sam tried. "He seemed to like that cat at the old folks' home." 

"And once again, we end up at 'dead cat'." 

"Dean, if we _keep_ it, we'll end up at 'dead cat'!"

"Dude, you saying I can't take care of it? I took care of _you_ just fine." 

"And how many time have either of us died, now?" 

Dean lifted a finger and pointed at Sam. Sam stared back. Dean looked down at the kitten, who was — for once — happily munching away on its tuna. He looked back at Sam. 

". . . Shut up." 

"Let's be honest here, Dean. Why do you want to keep this cat?" 

"It's a hunter," Dean said, the answer quick off his tongue. "It'll take care of the pest problems in the bunker." 

"We don't have a pest problem in the bunker." 

"Not anymore," Dean said. "Come on, Sam, you've always wanted a pet." 

"I've always wanted a _dog_. You know, big, friendly, loves you unconditionally, fetches the paper, _doesn't make Dean asphyxiate in his sleep._ " 

"We're working on that. The meds are helping. That website you found said that something like one-third of people with cat allergies still choose to live with cats." 

" _Asphyxiate in your sleep,_ " Sam said. 

"mew?" said the kitten. Dean crouched down and scooped it up, ignoring the way his eyes immediately wanted to start tearing up. He held it up next to his face and gave Sam his best sad kitty eyes. 

Sam dropped his head into his hands. "I hate you both."

*

"Okay." Dean paced across the waiting room at the local animal clinic. "Okay. The internet said this was a good idea. The cat doctor says it's a good idea." He looked over at Sam, who was poking his fingers around through the handle-hole in the side of the paper box they'd put the kitten in to get it to the clinic. A tiny black paw flailed back at him through the hole. "Why doesn't this feel like a good idea?"

"Because you're over-empathizing with a cat," Sam offered. 

"Dude," Dean said. "You can't possibly be that comfortable with this." 

"It's a _cat_ , Dean," Sam said. "You heard the vet. Squeamishness aside, this is all upside. He'll be healthier and happier, he won't pee all over our stuff, and if he gets out, we know he won't be going around making even more tiny helpless kittens that need rescuing from thunderstorms in the middle of the night." 

Dean let out a heavy sigh and slumped down into the chair next to Sam. He looked over, meeting the kitten's eye through the box. "And you promise he won't hate me, later?" 

Sam's mouth quirked up in a little smile. "He won't even remember he ever had them in the first place." 

A vet tech came out of the door at the end of the room, clipboard in hand. "Uh," she said, frowning at the sheet Sam had filled out. "So Nova?" 

"Sonuva," Dean corrected, raising his hand. "Over here." 

"Sonuva," the vet tech repeated, coming over to lift up the corner of the box and peek in at the kitten. She was hot, in a simple, girl next door kind of way, minimal make up, her wavy black hair pulled up in a careless ponytail. She smiled at Dean. "That's a new one for me. I usually see people go with S.O.B." 

Dean coughed into his hand. "Right." 

"I'll just take this little guy back, then," she said, setting her clipboard down on top of the box and lifting it with both hands. Dean was gratified to see that Sam had his own little moment of panic when he realized it was time to take the little guy away for the surgery. "You should probably look into a sturdier carrier, though. Boxes work in a pinch, but they don't hold up as well if he gets nervous and pees in the car." She shot them both a wink and then was gone, little Sonuvabitch whisked away into the operating room to say goodbye to his testicles. 

"Oh god," said Dean. Sam patted him on the shoulder. 

"There there," he said. "There there."

*

It was a long wait. The folks at the counter said they would call and let them know when it was time to come pick Sonuvabitch up after the surgery, but Dean refused to leave. He'd sat in the waiting room for every surgery his family ever went through, up to and including the c-section that brought Sam into the world. He wasn't about to go home and wait out this one.

Sam made a run for coffee. Veterinary waiting rooms didn't come stocked for nervous family members, apparently. They sat in silence for the first half an hour or so before Sam finally spoke. 

"The cat's your new Sammy, isn't it?" he asked. 

Dean snorted, then regretted it. His sinuses were still pretty tender, allergy meds and other stop-gaps aside. "I'm not replacing you with a cat, Sam."

"Well, no," Sam said. "The cat can't get you coffee." He smiled and nudged Dean with his elbow. "Come on, man. I know you have to have been thinking about it." 

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Of course I have. I never wanted a pet, you know that? Not a dog or a cat or — or a fucking hamster. You were always dog-crazy, like it was some kind of birthright you were being denied, but . . . I never got that." 

Sam nodded. "I noticed. Your whole 'no dogs in the car' rule was pretty clear." 

"I tried to kick him out when he first showed up, you know?" Dean said. "Set him out on the curb, all scrawny and covered in crap, thunderstorm blowing in like crazy. Didn't think twice about it." 

"So what stopped you?" 

"He walked back into the room." Dean shrugged. "Then he started trying to clean himself up with his tongue and _that_ was disgusting, so I had to give him a bath and then. . . ." Dean trailed off, staring into his coffee. 

"Sad kitty eyes?" Sam asked. 

"I can't take that crap from you, and you're a grown man." Dean shook his head. "How was I supposed to turn down a tiny, helpless kitten?" 

"So you took him in," Sam said. "But why did you _keep_ him?" 

Dean's shoulders hunched. He wished he had a beer. He wished the vet techs behind the counter weren't eight feet away and probably watching the whole conversation. He wished he could pull out his flask and pour some whiskey in his coffee without the lady with the poodle on the other side of the room yelling bloody murder. 

"You're a grown man," he said finally. "I know you think I don't know that, but I do. I can't protect you like I used to." He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, his eyebrows shooting up when he realized it had a tiny kick to it. Sam had spiked his coffee _for_ him. "I guess maybe I thought if I had something else to protect, I could lay off you, a little." 

Sam smiled. Not the closed lip expression that came out when they were bantering, but a real smile, full of teeth, like Dean hadn't seen in he didn't even know how long. "Okay," he said. 

"Okay?" Dean repeated, incredulous.

Sam nodded and lifted his coffee cup. "To grown men," he said. "And their teeny, adorable ball of kitten fluff." 

"To Sonuvabitch," Dean said, tapping the rim of his coffee cup against Sam's. "Did you spike yours, too?" 

Sam snorted. "Maybe a little." 

"Dunno, man, that's pretty naughty. I'm not sure you're going to be a proper role model for our little Sonuva." 

Sam laughed, sinking lower in his chair. The woman with the poodle on the other end of the room scowled at them disapprovingly. The vet techs behind the counter probably ignored them completely. 

And somewhere in a back room, Sonuvabitch was passed out under anesthesia, dreaming of his two idiot humans and his best friend the Roomba, and the grand adventures he'd have in his library. 

End


End file.
